


Queen of Hearts

by Laylah



Category: Last Remnant
Genre: Backstory, Community: bloodyvalentine, F/M, Guro, Human Experimentation, Mad Science
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-18
Updated: 2011-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-15 18:09:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/163491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You won't thank me until it's over," Haruko says wryly, "but I'm giving you a tremendous opportunity right now. If you succeed, you'll have power that most mitra can only dream of."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Queen of Hearts

It's one of Elysion's dirtiest little secrets that the easiest place in the city to find rough trade is right in the shadows of the temple. You get the occasional lost tourist down here, somebody who's turned around and thought they were on their way to a gift shop, but mostly people who make it down into the sunken alley where Young works are people who already know what they want. A lot of guys want the skinny little pricks who look like less trouble—that's a fucking laugh, too. Young's seen Kit fight—but there's enough of them who want a guy who can knock them around some. Young gets by. It ain't worth a ballad or anything, but it's a living.

The day all that changes is gray and ugly, the sky thinking about pissing down on them. Even in the holy city, weather doesn't give anyone a break. Probably that'll mean a slow day—not a lot of tricks to turn on a day like this for anyone but the yama girls. Young thinks about taking the couple of coins in his pocket over to the Heavenly Terrace, seeing if he can flirt with the bartender enough that she'll spot hm a pint or two. He'll give it till the next bell, he decides, and if he hasn't picked up any work by then he'll call it a lost cause.

The flashy bitch shows up just about as soon as he's made up his mind. Mitra, nicely dressed, her hair done up in this fancy twist that keeps it off her face. She looks way too posh for back-alley temple hookers, but she also looks like she knows what she's going to find down here. Well, they say Marion's got a sense of humor, right?

Young pushes off the wall he's been leaning against and goes over to say hi. He doesn't even have to think about his working-this-corner swagger anymore, and it definitely catches Miss Priss's attention. She looks him up and down, lingering on his hips—on his cock—too long to be polite. "Hey, sweetheart," Young says with a grin, and she looks up at his face again. "Out for a little thrillseeking, huh?"

"Is that what it's called around here?" she asks, matching his smile.

He won't have any trouble getting it up for her, Young thinks. "That's what it's called when you play with me," he says. She's soft, more likely a trader than a mercenary. Looking for a little excitement, an adventure while she's in town. He knows the type.

"I have a room in Hendler," she says, confirming his guess. "Would you like to come back there with me for the afternoon?"

There are always risks when you go off with somebody. Sometimes they're worth it, but sometimes that's how people wind up beaten or sold or just run through and left in a gutter. Not that Young really thinks this girl could do him like that. He could handle anything she threw at him.

He must hesitate too long thinking about it, because Miss Priss laughs. "You're not scared to go with me, are you?"

"Course not," Young says. "Just thinking about whether I had any appointments to worry about this afternoon."

"And do you?" Miss Priss asks, not even bothering to call him on the lie.

It starts to rain, tiny cold drops like the water needs to work up to being a real bitch. "Nothing important," Young says. The pub will still be there when they're through. "Sure, let's go have some fun."

"I can't wait," Miss Priss says, taking his arm.

She leads the way, and after a few blocks it starts to look like she's trying to hide from something—they're sticking to little alleys and side streets, not getting anywhere near the main roads. "You trying not to get noticed?" Young asks. "You don't have a jealous husband I need to worry about, do you?"

She laughs a little, but it sounds nervous. "It's nothing like that," she says. "I just...want to be cautious."

"Cautious," Young repeats, because really now she's making him a little uncomfortable. "Cautious about what?" The rain's getting harder, but he's starting to think maybe he should ditch her anyway. He has a bad feeling about this.

"I have a reputation to keep up," she says. "I realize that doesn't sound like much to you, but—"

They turn a corner and something hits Young right in the side of the head. He smells the dry, scaly sourness of yama as he crumples to the ground, his vision going dark.

"Careful," he thinks he hears the woman say. "We need him whole."

He'd struggle if he could, but everything is going black.

*

Haruko checks the subject's straps one more time: wrists, ankles, biceps, thighs, hips, ribs. She has faith that they'll hold, in the abstract; they've managed to perform the procedure successfully on a sovani, after all, and sovani are as a rule considerably stronger than mitra. Even if this particular mitra seems to be well-developed for the species.

He was wary enough when she acquired him, street-smart enough, that she thinks he has a good chance of a successful procedure—he clearly already has experience making difficult choices. Surely he'll choose correctly when she gives him the most important choice of his life.

Satisfied with the quality of her subject's restraints, Haruko turns her attention to her tools. Her blades are fresh, and she has a dozen clean forceps laid out in a neat row; the remnant fragment itself floats in a shallow dish of saline, glinting in the light. Sometimes it seems to shimmer, to twitch; the saline doesn't provide it nearly enough energy to move, but there's no doubt that it's viable.

Behind her, the subject makes an incoherent noise, and the frame of the table creaks as he discovers how well he's strapped in. "The hell?" he says. "Hey!"

Haruko turns to him, smiling. "I'm glad you're awake," she says, and she can see recognition cross his face. He's more angry than afraid; that'll be good, too. "That means we can go ahead and get started."

"The fuck we can!" her subject snarls. "Let me up, you sick bitch." Muscles flex as he pulls against the restraints, but he doesn't go anywhere. Just right.

"You won't thank me until it's over," Haruko says wryly, "but I'm giving you a tremendous opportunity right now. If you succeed, you'll have power that most mitra can only dream of." She pulls on a fresh pair of gloves and picks up her scalpel.

"Don't," her subject says, his eyes widening, his teeth peeling back from his lips in an animal grimace. "Don't you—fuck, get away!"

Haruko shakes her head. She splays her hand across his stomach, feeling the trembling of clenched muscle as she smooths the skin taut. "I'm afraid this will hurt," she says, which is half true: she isn't afraid in the least. "But it shouldn't last too long, if you keep your wits about you."

"You fucking bitch," her subject howls. "I'm going to fucking kill you!"

She really should have gagged him. The threats grow tedious so quickly. "First you have to survive this, so pay attention," she says. She marks her place, just beneath his sternum, and presses down with the scalpel to open the incision. Her subject curses loudly and unimaginatively, but the restraints don't let him pull away enough to injure himself badly. "Good," Haruko says. "Doing well so far."

"Fuck you," her subject says. Sweat beads on his brow as Haruko reaches for her forceps. "You're not so damn tough."

"Hmm." Haruko uses one forceps to lift the remnant specimen from its saline bath, and slides the other into the incision she's just made, lifting the skin away from the muscle beneath. Her clit pulses, a reflexive response, as her subject's blood starts to flow freely. She can't afford to be distracted now, she reminds herself sternly. "This remnant will react immediately when it contacts your flesh. If you want to live, you need to bind it, as quickly as possible."

His face is pale, his chest rising and falling rapidly. She hasn't hurt him enough yet to cause shock; he must be struggling to maintain his bravado. "Or what, you'll kill me?"

"I won't," Haruko says. "The remnant will." They've lost three subjects that way, so far; the last time, she— "It will seek your heart. If you don't bind it by the time it reaches its goal, it will devour you from the inside." She gives him two seconds to absorb the idea, then inserts the fragment into the incision.

His bravado evaporates as the fragment whiptails and starts to burrow into soft tissue. He screams, muscles drawing uselessly tight as he tries to struggle. Haruko presses gauze over the incision—the fragment's movement causes significant trauma, and blood flows freely.

"Bind it," Haruko reminds him when he has to draw a breath. "Concentrate. Make it yours." The pulse between her legs has turned into a steady ache, making her breath come faster. She'd like to climb onto the table, like to straddle his thigh and feel his struggles grind him against her—no. She can't let herself get distracted. Her subject is in danger of failing.

Haruko reaches up with one hand to catch hold of his chin, turning his face to look at her. Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth; the fragment has punctured a lung. "Don't let it win," she tells him, and that at least sparks a reaction in his icy eyes. "Own it. Control it."

He bares his teeth at her, then coughs more blood. Haruko leans in close, pressed against him; she can feel him trembling. His eyes unfocus, not glazed in death but distant as if in concentration. His pulse beats wildly beneath his jaw and his breathing is rattling, wet. If he's going to succeed, it'll have to be—

When he manages to bind the fragment, just in time, his success is immediately evident. The pale green glow of a remnant's activation surrounds him, flaring bright, and then as it fades he seems to inhale shadows from all corners of the room. For a moment his eyes darken to unbroken black, wide and empty.

The shock of it still renders him unconscious. It's for the better, really. Haruko lets go of him, casting a quick Restore so he he won't drown in his own blood before they can put him through some tests to see how well the binding worked. She segregates the used instruments so they can be properly cleaned, strips off her gloves and discards them. Lord Wagram will be interested to hear the report of her success.

And tonight, when she has some time to herself—she looks back at her subject, and feels that almost-painful throb in her clit as she looks at his bloodied mouth—perhaps then she'll let herself savor the memory.


End file.
